Rufius

by Sarah Walton

  The blade’s flat against his throat. He must know I gave Lanky that cut through his lip.

  ‘Patch, free Croc.’

  He stands, mouth open with the rest of them for a moment, then darts, knife out towards Croc.

  ‘Patch, I’ll have your other eye, you mongrel.’ Spittle lands on my arm. I jerk Turk back. ‘Don’t just stand there, eh, you wretches…’ Need to keep a tight grip on my knife to stop Turk writhing free.

  The gang looks uncertain. Where does their loyalty lie, with the pretty new boy or Turk?

  ‘Who’s with me? You’ll all have an equal share of the loot.’ My voice sounds feeble compared to Turk’s. Push depth into it. ‘Who’s with us?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘And me.’

  Young ones’ voices. We need the older boys.

  A fight breaks out at the back. ‘Cowards! Are you scared of Pretty and his little friends?’

  Fish and another older boy run at the steps.

  Lanky stands. ‘Untie me, Pretty.’

  My stomach lurches at trusting Lanky, but we need an older boy on our side, someone they’re afraid of.

  ‘Patch, cut Lanky free.’

  Croc throws himself at one of them running up the steps. Fish is coming at me. What can I do?

  ‘One more step and I’ll cut him like I did Lanky.’

  Fish hesitates, then grins. ‘You don’t have the balls.’

  My fist clenches the knife. I’ll just nick under the chin.

  ‘Argh!’ Turk swings away from the blade. No you don’t. I yank him. Shit, the blade’s slicing across his cheek like it’s a peach. His hand goes to his face, eyes wide with shock. He didn’t think I’d do it. Neither did I.

  ‘You little fucker.’ He lunges at me, his fist whacks me so hard I fall back, my head thuds on the step. Everything’s gone blurry. Turk yanks me up by the neck of my tunic; his face close, a bloody blur. His breath reeks. ‘Your bones are mine, Pretty.’

  My knife, I still have it. In it goes. Take that! He lets me go and lunges backwards before I can reach him with the blade. My feet find their footing, blade out and ready in a wide stance like Saracen. No need: Lanky jumps him. Two boys have brought down Fish.

  It’s difficult to work out who’s winning on the steps below me, whose side which boy is on. Looks like young ones against older boys, except for Lanky. He’s with us.

  A group of boys band together and jump from the sacrifice slab on to Fish’s back. They hold him down and grab his mouth. A filthy little boy jumps on his chest and shoves his knife in Fish’s mouth, pulling on his tongue. The noise of the wind and the shouts of the gang are loud and confusing. ‘It’s like an eel,’ he squeals as he tries to get a grip on Fish’s tongue. His little elbow saws back and forth. Fish screams and writhes on the ground. ‘OUT, OUT, OUT,’ they chant. A tomb dog barks like he’s egging them on. Fish has stopped moving – must have passed out from the pain. The little one sits up on Fish’s chest like he’s on the back of a horse and raises his bloody arm above this head. The cheer is a battle cry as the boy flings the tongue to the dog like it’s a scrap of gristle not worth eating. My stomach lurches. They’re animals.

  ‘Man, you alright?’ It’s Croc. His arm’s on my shoulder, but I can’t feel it.

  ‘Croc, we’re leaving.’

  ‘We can’t leave. We’re the leaders now.’

  ‘Only if we fight Lanky.’

  We both watch as Lanky chops and cuts, a knife in both hands, wiry muscles strong and agile as he stabs one boy after another with stadium bloodlust. Lanky’s enjoying it! This is the only time I’ve ever seen him look happy.

  Croc shakes himself like a dog shaking out a fright.

  ‘Lanky wants our eyes, Croc.’

  ‘But we got nowhere to go.’

  ‘Yes we do.’

  ‘I’m not living in that church with all those snakes if that’s what yer got planned.’

  ‘Come on.’ I run up the steps. Why’s Croc just standing there? My heart heaves. He’s not coming with me. I run back. ‘Don’t fight Lanky. Croc, please.’

  ‘Why not? You took on Turk.’

  ‘That’s different…’

  ‘You calling me a cinaedus?’

  ‘No, Croc. I… please come with me.’

  He throws his head back and laughs his gappy hiccup. Come here, you crazy Croc: his lips are generous and warm.

  ‘Kissy, kissy, Pretty.’ Lanky’s voice makes me jump backwards.

  Croc’s quick with his knife. He waves it at Lanky.

  Turk’s coming at me; his right eye’s closed up, face bloodied. He intends to kill me.

  ‘He’s mine.’ Lanky grins, cracks his neck both sides and races at Turk, a knife in both hands.

  ‘Run, Aeson, while these two are at each other. Go! I’ve got your back, man.’

  The scroll itches under my tunic. I’d forgotten about that.

  ‘Your old Roman, where did you arrange to meet?’

  ‘One of the posh villas on the Eastern wall, the one furthest from the harbour.’

  ‘Croc, don’t stay ’ere.’

  We look at Turk and Lanky, tight in a wrestle. The gang has stopped to watch.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, man. Get out of here.’

  Bones rattle as I dash up the steps. The warring winds smash against me at ground level. As I run jumbled images – a child holding Fish’s tongue in the air like a centurion brandishing the Eagle after a victory, the hollow socket beneath Patch’s eye-patch – drive my legs faster. Sharp stones cut into my bare feet, but I won’t stop until I reach the city. The Pharos glows brighter as I approach the harbour. Need a plan, I do.

  ‌15

  Rufius

  Turk said he’d bring the books and the boy, so where in Bacchus’ name is he? City lights draw me back to the terrace… my blue-eyed boy is out there… somewhere. This wind’s making me more agitated than I already am: palm fronds slap the balcony and silk curtains flap like the ritual dance of the eunuch priests of Cybele. Those blasted wind chimes are tinkling so hard and fast… my anxiety’s at fever pitch.

  ‘Get rid of those chimes.’

  ‘Master, pacing will not bring Turk any quicker. Please, drink a little wine to calm your nerves.’

  ‘Wine, bah! I won’t drink anymore of that vinegar Theon served at my welcome dinner. I thought Egypt was the wine capital of the Empire.’

  ‘The best vintages are shipped to Constantinople, master.’

  ‘Vineyards have their price, Apollinos. Only the best for my cellars, do you hear me?’

  ‘Tut.’

  Even my Babylonian slavegirl’s irritating me tonight. ‘Stop that tutting, Cunty.’

  Why am I so bent on Aeson? The thought of him makes slush of my brain. Why do those sapphire eyes haunt me when I have a mountain of pressing business – the renovation, my new position at the Library, the satisfaction of swindling Damasus and the prospect of making a fortune? Turning ideas into money usually engrosses me…

  ‘My purpose is to tell of bodies which have been transformed into shapes of a different kind…’

  ‘Ovid, master?’

  ‘Humph? Yes, Metamorphoses.’

  He’s ripe. Never have I seen a boy within whom the ripple of potential is so tantalising on the cusp of manhood: arms, shoulders, the line of his jaw. How I quivered under his vigilant gaze on Venus Street… and how disappointed I was not to be the focus of his attention in the Agora this evening. It made me crave my own youth, yearn to feel an admirer’s gaze so hot upon me that something of me is stolen – or perhaps invigorated – under its scrutiny.

  ‘Apollinos, when you were a boy did you know I noted every small change: how the muscles in your arms would harden after a day swimming at the gymnasium, only to be soft again a day later? Did you feel my gaze gnaw into you?’

  Is that sadness in Apollinos’ eyes? I regret the thrashing I gave him earlier, but sulking is banned at Biblos.

  ‘No doubt, master, this boy wil
l disappoint like all the others.’

  ‘None of my boys disappoint. They simply… change… change into something quite gross to me. How odd that the bulk of a man revolts me – me a cinaedus – who ever heard such a thing! But then one’s sexuality is as individual as a fingerprint.’

  I do believe the girl flinched at the word.

  ‘Do not think I insult myself, Cunty – although don’t let me catch that word uttered in this house by anyone but me – I wear the label with pride. Is it not better to accept our nature?’

  ‘I’m a princess.’

  ‘Indeed you are, dear…’… although Apollinos will have a thing or two to say about it.

  ‘What about the books, master? What if that ruffian sells them himself?’

  ‘It is more difficult than you think to sell heretic books, Apollinos. Collectors must be careful, and they’re not the calibre of client a street urchin like Turkey…’

  ‘Turk.’ Apollinos spits it like a curse. He’s such a snob.

  ‘Yes, yes. Turk does not keep company with bishops and politicians and emperors…’ What beautiful eyes the Greek boy had… once I’ve had the street urchin my business focus will return.

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Roman pimps would never mess me around like this, Apollinos.’

  ‘The university’s teeming with boys, master.’

  Get a grip, Rufius. What about the books? Titus has a small fortune in newly minted gold coins waiting for their delivery. Think of what sculptures I can commission, what extravagances I can luxuriate in with all that money.

  ‘I want Carrara marble pleasure-loving gods in each corner of the triclinium, Apollinos.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ He’s relieved I’ve changed the subject.

  ‘And here, as you enter, that bust of myself at fourteen we ferried from Rome. Um, frescoes of lush forests, I think for this room, that I can dream about returning to while exiled in this city crushed between the salt of the desert and the salt of the sea.’ Curse Damasus!

  ‘Master, what about ochre paint for…’

  ‘THIEF, THIEF!’ A commotion in the gardens draws us to the balcony.

  ‘Thank Bacchus! Some sport.’

  Apollinos rushes off downstairs, appears on the terrace below and shouts orders. He used to be bossy in the bedroom too. Slaves hold torches above their heads in the garden and look up at the house. Have they spotted the thief?

  A svelte figure jumps from the adjacent balcony – what was he doing in my library? – onto the roof below my balcony, and runs across it fast as an athlete with a swift trot… or is that a limp? He’s hurt. My slaves pull themselves up onto the roof after him. They don’t have his agility, or his speed even with that limp. Run, my Olympic champion.

  Where’s he gone? There, climbing the wallflowers.

  ‘Over here.’ I point in the direction of the bougainvillea by the terrace. The dry bract cracks under his weight. Twigs fall away, but he doesn’t. His speed saves him as he grabs one branch after another above his head. He needs a hair cut whoever he is. Dark curly hair flaps in the wind, but I can’t see his face. Villa Biblos needs better lighting. I’ll have nooks cut for wall lamps.

  The boldness of it – he’s heading for the roof terrace.

  ‘Come on, Cunty! The entertainment’s arrived.’ I rush past the girl and head for the stairs, thrilled by the chase.

  She runs past me up the marble stairs. ‘My name’s Aphrodite.’

  What doting Greek named you? ‘You’re Biblus in this household, dear.’

  The girl’s ahead of the game – she waves me over to where she’s crouched between a potted olive tree and the cushioned seating that skirts the terrace wall. Good, I’m in time. I crouch beside her. Is that my knees creaking?

  We wait, slow our breathing and listen.

  Bougainvillea rustles… he’s nearly at the top. The girl frowns, puts her finger over her bud of a mouth to hush my wheezing. ‘Shush.’

  Ha! What fun!

  She’s alert as Diana ready for the hunt.

  Is that a hand on the balcony? Yes, an arm, then a foot follows.

  Off she darts.

  Wait for me, dear! Curse these knees. My joints need oiling.

  It’s a boy, not a man. The thief pulls himself on to the ledge and crouches on all fours; still can’t see his face. He’s looking at my neighbour’s villa. The crazy boy’s going to jump to the next building. An impossible jump.

  ‘Stop, dear!’

  The girl grabs his tunic.

  He bats her off, stands and runs along the wall; lean muscles shine in the terrace torches. What perfect proportions.

  ‘Stop. We won’t hurt you,’

  By Bacchus! He jumped.

  We both gasp and run to the ledge.

  Blood on the white marble ledge makes me queasy – his foot must be bleeding.

  ‘Have a look, dear. I can’t bear to. Did he make it?’

  She leans over the balcony on tiptoes, as I hold her waist.

  ‘Yes.’ She sounds as relieved as I am.

  We both sigh.

  Let’s see. The thief’s hanging from my neighbour’s roof terrace; legs dangle as he tries to pull himself up by his arms.

  Torches flicker in the gardens below. My neighbour’s household is in a noisy commotion. Apollinos’ face appears over the ledge of my neighbour’s terrace, above the boy’s head. The thief looks around like a desperate animal. He sees he’s trapped. Below are the street guard. Above, Apollinos and a scrum of unfriendly faces.

  ‘Get him,’ Apollinos orders.

  Slaves in white and gold Biblos tunics swing their legs over, knives clenched between their teeth.

  Apollinos looks over at me. ‘We have him, master.’

  The thief turns his head to face me.

  By Bacchus! My Olympian-eyed boy!

  What luck! I feel like I’ve caught a whale whilst fishing for minnow. Time to reel him in.

  ‘Bring him to me, Apollinos. And dismiss the guard.’ My voice is firm, although I am flimsy as a moth fluttering around a lamp.

  ‘Yes, master.’ He can wipe that look of smug satisfaction off his face.

  ‘No need to be smug, dear.’

  The girl winks at me: she’s calculated the household dynamics. I chose well.

  ‘Come on, Diana, we have a guest. Tell the cook to arrange some food.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ Off she thuds to put the kitchen staff to work. Half-way down the stairs she pauses and looks back. ‘Is that my new name, master: Diana?’

  ‘Yes, Diana, why not? You pounce like the goddess of the hunt. Now off you go, Cunty.’

  She skips, two pounces to each marble step, pronouncing her new name to herself.

  ‘The goddess of the hunt does not skip.’

  Diana slows her step to a calm, measured patter. I did choose well. Now, let’s see if I still have the charm to seduce a beauty.

  ‌16

  Rufius

  Where shall I sit? On the wide couch with the crimson cushions… in front of my bust? Yes. Legs up or down? One up, one down: nonchalant. What will he see – an aging effeminate? Will that repulse him… or will he yearn for a taste of the high life?

  ‘You’re in for it now, you little tyke.’ Apollinos’ reprimanding tone jars my nerves as the parlour doors swing open.

  Oh, Apollinos! Did he have to tie the poor boy with ropes?

  ‘Master, this is the same thief who led us to the Ophites.’ So Apollinos recognised the boy. Who wouldn’t with those pale blue eyes, bright in his grimy face?

  Apollinos nods at the slaves to bring the boy over to me. Look what a good slave I am, what prize do I get? You fool, Apollinos.

  ‘Welcome to Villa Biblos, dear.’

  His defiant blue eyes lock into mine.

  ‘The City Guard is waiting in the atrium, master.’

  ‘Apollinos, I told you to dismiss the guard.’

  Apollinos turns a brighter shade of crimson than my new cushions, all the w
ay from his neck to his forehead.

  ‘But…’

  Don’t you but me. ‘What is his crime?’

  ‘Theft, master.’

  ‘What did he steal?’

  ‘We caught him in the library, master.’

  ‘And what did he steal?’

  ‘If you will allow me to search him, master, I will show you the evidence.’

  The poor boy has something stuffed down the front of his tunic.

  ‘I don’t imagine he can hide much under that skimpy tunic, Apollinos.’

  ‘He was with that rent boy who stole Titus Arrius’ purse in the Agora, master.’ Apollinos’ crimson shine is as bright as if he’d stood all day in the desert. ‘Remember, master,…’

  ‘No, Apollinos, I don’t remember.’ My legs are stiff from crouching with Diana on the roof terrace. One knee clicks. Best stay in the one position to avoid looking like an invalid. ‘Now, answer my question, what did he steal?’

  ‘Master, he broke into the house…’ Apollinos is pleading, grasping like my blue-eyed boy clutched at the bougainvillea.

  ‘Perhaps he lost his way, perhaps he wanted to borrow a book!’

  The boy’s furtive gaze darts from Apollinos to me. If he’s surprised at my reaction, he doesn’t show it. I do believe his expression has assumed my own incredulity. The look of confusion on Apollinos’ face is an added bonus to this lucky turn of fate, but I’m tired of playing with him.

  ‘You are dismissed.’

  ‘I think I should remain – in case he tries to escape, master.’

  ‘Tie him to that pillar, boys.’ That will prevent him running off.

  Diana patters in, not her usual heavy step, with a tray of cold meats, figs and bread.

  ‘Thank you Diana, dear.’

  Apollinos’ jaw gapes lower still at my calling the new slave by anything other than the family name.

  ‘Drama’s over. Off you go. I will decide if a crime’s been committed.’ The slaves patter off. ‘And, Apollinos, dismiss the Guard – do as I say this time. I do not expect my orders to be ignored, boy.’ He hates me calling him boy.